


Ambush

by snowpuppies



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-04-04
Updated: 2009-04-04
Packaged: 2017-10-02 07:05:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lilah Morgan is a lioness, and she's on the hunt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambush

**Author's Note:**

> This piece was commissioned by Dream in Color for Breathe Bubbles for their Anniversary.
> 
>  
> 
> Beta'd by [Kitty Poker](http://kitty-poker1.livejournal.com/) and [Deird1](http://deird1.livejournal.com/).

There's nothing like the thrill of the hunt.

It's better than sex, most times.

And Lilah Morgan is the ultimate hunter. Being a woman, she has to be sharper, smarter, more alert; she has to be ten steps ahead while pretending to be two behind…in short, she has to be _perfect_.

Lawyers have always been likened to sharks, and in some cases, she supposes, it's fitting: they come out of nowhere, maim their prey then watch it flounder before ripping it to shreds.

Personal injury lawyers are sharks.

But Lilah…is a lioness.

Not a lion, of course. Lions are nothing more than lazy, testosterone-laden breeding machines. Fitting, she supposes, for many of her vagina-impaired colleagues, but altogether wrong for her.

Because it's the lioness who hunts. It's the lioness who watches the herd for the weak, picking them off and chasing them down, fangs and claws ripping into flesh to bring down her prey.

The lion can roar all he wants; Lilah is the one running the show.

The analogy fits in more ways than one, really—her new quarry is surprisingly suited to a lioness's prey: doe-eyed, slender like a gazelle, skittish when away from the pack…

And altogether irresistible to the lioness.

 

***

 

It's a simple enough matter to tempt Winifred Burkle into her bed.

Because as intelligent as Fred is—smart enough to take on Wolfram &amp; Hart's tech department, the _whole_ tech department—she wears all her emotions in those big, brown eyes.

And Lilah can read her like a jury pool.

While relatively few words are needed, the crucial component to trapping prey like Winifred Burkle is time.

Time, you see, is the intellectual's enemy, because the more they mull things over, the muddier the waters get. And in muddy water the prey is vulnerable, and when Fred Burkle is vulnerable, she'll fall straight into Lilah's trap.

So she drops her bait, piece by piece.

Her first level of attack comes in the form of conversations held within hearing distance: she talks about the great stylist she's found or the great heels she bought, or the great _sex_ she's having. With carefully measured bites, she feeds the inadequacy churning in Fred's gut until doubt and worry begin to gnaw on her defenses.

Then comes the physical contact—a casual brush here, an accidental 'bump' there—followed by the pseudo-friendly engagement. Fred's not stupid enough to believe Lilah wants to be _friends_, exactly, but there's no problem with being civil, and a tit-for-tat arrangement is well within her own character as well as the parameters of her plan.

So she gives a _little_, and poor, sweet, naïve Fred gives a lot more than she means to.

After that, all Lilah has to do is drop a hint that she has experience with matters both _foreign_ and _domestic_, then leave things to simmer.

 

***

 

When the capitulation comes, it's sweet.

And Fred is even sweeter.

She's shy, of course, so Lilah doesn't pounce, but sits back to wait.

It's still, and each moment is filled with tension, but Lilah knows how imperative it is that Fred makes that final step…

And then, _mercifully_, Lilah steps in to take the lead.

She's a beautiful girl, Fred Burkle, with her dark, messy hair fanned across Lilah's pillow and her long, slim legs stretched across Lilah's bed. But what Lilah finds the most arousing, the most intoxicating, is Fred's _fear_.

Oh, Fred's not afraid that Lilah will hurt her, no, it's not anything as sensible as that; what she fears the most is not what Lilah will do, but that she'll enjoy it.

And—mixed with the saltysweet sweat from Fred's damp body—its taste has no equal.

So Lilah strips her prey, physically and emotionally, and devours it whole.

When she's done, she rises from the bed—hands and face sticky with _Fred_—and silently dresses, a satisfied smirk gracing her face when her gaze flickers to the sleeping girl on the bed.

If Fred were anyone else, Lilah would likely leave money on the night table, a final 'fuck you' to a one-night stand, but when she's totally honest with herself—and if you're going to lie to pretty much every other person (or non-person) you know, you really _have_ to be—she doesn't really want to hurt Fred. In a strange way, she reminds Lilah of a past she's not remembered in years.

So she withdraws when instinct says to go in for the kill.

Oh, some day Winifred Burkle will lose that sickly-sweet innocence, of that Lilah has no doubt, but she'll leave it for someone else to take.

And so, without so much as a glimpse at the bed, she turns to go, pausing only to collect a single piece of hard evidence from the floor, stuffing it into her pocket.

She leaves her own on the floor next to the bed; it wouldn't do for little Fred to go home without panties, would it?

 

***

 

It's the work of a moment to drive to the hotel; it's a good thing, too, otherwise Fred's juices would be dried and flaking from her cheeks and fingers before she completes her objective.

The seduction of Fred Burkle was but the first act, a prelude of what was to come, the grand jury before a Murder One trial.

The climax of this game is yet to come, and she plans on coming, several times if she plays her cards right, before the night is through.

She's caught the gazelle; now it's time to lure in her lion.

She's had him before, of course, but every time there's a distance, a tiny part of himself he holds in reserve, and while she should be happy with what she's got—she really didn't have a snowball's chance in Accounting, to begin with—she simply can't be satisfied until she consumes every little drop.

 

***

 

She exits the elevator onto the eleventh floor and stalks down the hallway to her room, a pleased smile stretching across her face at the 'Do Not Disturb' tag hanging from the knob.

Sure enough, things are exactly as she left them: lights off, curtains open, phone off the hook, and a naked Wesley Wyndam-Pryce tied to the bed.

He grunts when he notices her, an angry scowl stretched across his face and fire in his eyes. The wetness between her legs that began earlier while she pinned a thrashing Fred to her bed has now become a deluge, and the twinge inside has become a dull ache, radiating from her groin and up her spine.

She's _hungry_, and she'll have her fill.

Wes is cursing beneath his gag; she smirks at his helplessness, crawling onto the bed and straddling his torso, her bare cunt warm and wet against his stomach. She slides one sticky finger down the bridge of his nose before moving the obstruction from his mouth.

He curses again, this time without the gag, and his voice is deep and gravelly with disuse. She takes advantage of his open mouth, sliding her fingers inside the warm cavern; his teeth scrape against her skin and she knows he's preparing to bite…

But in that moment he recognizes the flavor. It takes a second more for him to realize _who_ he's tasting, eyes widening in realization.

After all, she's been hinting for months that there was something more to sweet little Fred than meets the eye, and now, he finally believes her.

She pulls her fingers from his mouth, eyes creasing in pleasure as he whimpers at the loss.

And so she teases him—cats love to play with their prey, after all—rubbing her fingers, her cheeks, against his face, always out of the reach of his hungry mouth. She whispers in his ear as she rubs her body against his, describing how Fred looked, how she felt, how she _tasted_…

He's bucking against his restraints, gasping and sucking at any part of her face he can, when she finally lowers herself onto him. He arches up to meet her mouth with his own and she sinks her teeth into his lip, reaching forward to release the restraints as the blood spurts into her mouth.

In an instant, the world spins and she's flipped up and over and off the bed until they're on the floor. The carpet is burning her ass and Wesley is roaring as he stabs away into her and she leans back and stretches, smiling...

..like the cat that got the cream.

 

***

 

She wakes, naked and tied to the bed, Fred's pink, frilly panties stuffed into her mouth.

Spitting the scrap of lace onto the floor, she falls back against the mattress to stare at the ceiling.

A tingle of anticipation runs up her spine and a grin stretches her face as she begins to plan her next move.

Because there's _nothing_ like the thrill of the hunt…

…and the game is far from over.

 

 

_FIN_.

 

Originally archived [here](http://snowpuppies.livejournal.com/188046.html).


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